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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24899473">Breakfast at Midnight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gettingby/pseuds/gettingby'>gettingby</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Asexual Agatha Wellbelove, Baz pov, Baz's birthday, Drunken bad decisions, First Time, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Normal!AU, Taco Bell, University AU, agatha christie appreciation post, agatha wellbelove appreciation post, book nerd blowjobs, n' smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 01:01:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,914</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24899473</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gettingby/pseuds/gettingby</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Simon Snow has disappeared by the time we get to the bar, and the gin is starting to warm my insides. I decide, fuck it all, I’m going to get hammered. Because I’m twenty-two and nothing - not my father, not the beer stain on my cuff, and especially not Simon Snow - is going to ruin this night for me."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Penelope Bunce/Shepard, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow, baz/agatha? but not really</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>228</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Breakfast at Midnight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“You can’t say that until you’ve tried it!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dev gesticulates wildly, spilling ale along the cuff of my designer button-down, and I consider if this is the worst birthday of my life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niall sniffs. “I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>need</span>
  </em>
  <span> to try it. I’ve smelled it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m turning twenty-two. Just a few months away from graduating uni. I ought to have spent the day celebrating, or at least drinking. Instead, I spoke to my father, hung up politely, and cried for an hour before Dev and Niall came knocking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dev huffs. “I never expected you to be the elitist between the two of us, Niall.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baz. Please agree with me here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I re-engage with the conversation long enough to say, “Niall’s right. Taco Bell is disgusting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can’t just say that you don’t like Taco Bell. This is what’s wrong with modern society. This is why we have racism and Brexit and - homophobia-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Niall and I simultaneously turn disbelieving glares on Dev.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you implying,” I say so slowly that even Dev might understand, “that people are homophobic because they haven’t tried</span>
  <em>
    <span> Taco Bell</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m implying that they haven’t tried not being homophobic,” Dev says, but his face is scrunching up in a way that tells me he’s lost the thread of our conversation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I settle further into the booth and sip my gin and tonic. (It’s made of alcohol so bottom-shelf it’s practically underground.) And then I see him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The nightmare from my Tuesday seminar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His name is Simon Snow. He’s studying social work, but for some reason decided to take a three-hour seminar on advanced research topics in health economics. He’s an absolute disaster in the course. We’re supposed to be developing models based on the most cutting-edge concepts in economics, while this imbecile barely understands diminishing marginal returns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He sat next to me the first day, and now I spend my Tuesday evenings hissing insults in reply to his inane questions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I realise I’ve zoned out again when I feel Niall’s hand on my shoulder. “Baz, mate, you doing okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Splendid,” I answer, taking another sip of my drink. It burns the whole way to my liver. Niall follows my gaze to the bar and chuckles. “Oh, that’s the bloke from your class, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dev turns around to look and claps me on the back. “Nice, did you plot to run into him here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course not. This bar was </span>
  <em>
    <span>your</span>
  </em>
  <span> idea, Dev. And he’s just an annoying classmate.” To prove it, I tear my eyes away from Simon Snow and stare at the wall instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dev knocks his shoulder against mine. “Let me buy you another drink, Baz. It’s rude to be sad on your birthday.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What’s rude is that you forced me to come out. I was perfectly happy to stay in my flat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure, mate, that’s why we found you sobbing in the dark. Now, please quit being pathetic and deal with your problems like a normal person. By getting absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>pissed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon Snow has disappeared by the time we get to the bar, and the gin is starting to warm my insides. I decide, fuck it all, I’m going to get hammered. Because I’m</span>
  <em>
    <span> twenty-two</span>
  </em>
  <span> and nothing - not my father, not the beer stain on my cuff, and especially </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> Simon Snow - is going to ruin this night for me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I down two shots for each one Dev and Niall take, and before long the lights are dancing and I want to be too. The three of us spill onto the dance floor. A bad EDM remix of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Rain on Me </span>
  </em>
  <span>starts playing, and I completely lose my mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The night goes fuzzy around the edges as Dev nurses a beer and Niall takes incriminating videos on his phone. We laugh, they egg on my unseemly dance moves, and though I will never admit it, I’m having fun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, I engage in an off-kilter spin and lock eyes with Simon Snow.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His fist is pumping off-beat. He’s with three others: Penelope Bunce, an American exchange student I recognise but never bothered to learn the name of, and a girl I’ve never seen before - a willowy blonde whose hair falls in a flawless wave. She’s a good dancer, moving with shocking agility for someone in high heels.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And she’s currently pressed from chest to thigh against Simon Snow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m enraged. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>(Because she’s gorgeous, while Simon Snow is wearing a ratty looking tee shirt. His curls are sticking every which way. Has he even heard of buying jeans in the correct size?)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is exactly how he behaves in seminar - like he can waltz in unprepared and everything will fall into place for him. I’m gay, not blind. Even I can see that the blonde is way out of Simon’s league.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps if he put some product in his hair, or wore something that would bring out his eyes - none of these horrible oversize, brightly colored tee shirts.  He’d look much better in a form-fitting henley. Maybe in heather grey.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s just frankly offensive, the level of mediocrity that Simon Snow gets away with. He’s not bad-looking; probably in the top half of blokes that I’ve met at uni. Maybe top twenty percent. Would it kill him to try?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The combination of Simon and the perfectly styled blonde girl is just </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>. My skin prickles and my pleasant drunkenness turns into something more reckless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before Dev and Niall can stop me, I stride towards Simon Snow. He smiles when he sees me. He has weird teeth - spaced too far apart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I ignore him and introduce myself to the blonde girl. She has big brown eyes and long lashes, nothing like Simon’s stubby ones.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello, I’m Agatha,” she replies pleasantly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t think too much about what I’m doing - all I know is that I need to rescue Agatha from Simon Snow’s clutches. Sure, he can be charming, in an unassuming way. But that doesn’t change that Simon and Agatha are a mismatched pair. Like those videos of the tiger and the duck becoming best mates. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The disco lights bounce off of Simon Snow’s bronze curls and illuminate his face. He’s covered in so many moles that he could be a Dalmatian. I can’t bloody well focus in Tuesday seminar, even when he’s not distracting me with his questions, because I’m constantly looking at them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Agatha.” I roll her name around in my mouth like a fine wine. She smiles and holds out her dainty hand. I take petty enjoyment in Simon’s frown.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next song starts up and with a fluid motion, Agatha is no longer plastered against Simon Snow. Instead our hands are clasped and we’re dancing together. In my peripheral vision, Dev and Niall look extremely confused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now that I’ve got an unobstructed view of Simon, I can’t keep my eyes off him. He’s still glaring at me, and I feel the hot rush of victory. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Take that, Simon Snow! This is what it’s like to be bested by someone who doesn’t just bumble through life expecting everything to work out</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When I finally glance back at Agatha, she’s watching my expression thoughtfully. She gets on her tiptoes and leans in close. “Simon’s a lovely bloke, really.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I don’t register what she’s saying over the music. I’m watching Simon’s expression grow stormier the closer Agatha and I become. His gaze sweeps over me and leaves a trail of fire.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He talks about you all the time. You really should ask him to -”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I think,</span>
  <em>
    <span> fuck it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I stare directly into Simon’s eyes and cut off her sentence with my mouth. (I wasn’t paying attention anyway.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Our lips have barely brushed before Agatha dodges the kiss with practiced ease. She rolls her eyes and disappears into the crowd, mumbling something about “</span>
  <em>
    <span>just trying to help</span>
  </em>
  <span>” and </span>
  <em>
    <span>“getting dragged into a maidenfair drama.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I have no idea how to interpret those cryptic comments. Bunce and the American look amused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t take it personally,” Simon shouts over the music, placing his hand on my shoulder. “She’s asexual, she just likes dancing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh. Well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My mood improves considerably, probably because the music finally fades away. It’s silent for a couple of moments, like the whole club is holding its breath, waiting for whatever Singles Chart bollocks is next.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s for the best. She’s much too good for you,” I reply stiffly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Can’t disagree.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I lean closer. Simon Snow’s eyes are the blandest shade of blue. The Microsoft Paint blue, really. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your eyes are as unremarkable as your knowledge of economics,” I blurt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon looks peeved. “Oi, can you lay off? I just need the bloody credits to graduate. You don’t have to act so high and mighty about it every week.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next song comes on - heavy-bass hip-hop - and the crowd springs into action. A very drunk girl screams somewhere behind Snow. I try to find Dev and Niall in the crowd because now that the quiet is over, I don’t need to be standing a hair’s breadth from Simon Snow, staring into his eyes. I’m feeling a little lightheaded, honestly. I’ll tell Dev and Niall that I’m feeling unwell and take an Uber home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I catch sight of unruly ginger hair that could be Niall and turn towards it. Then the high-pitched scream behind Simon crescendos, and the wind is knocked out of me.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon Snow’s face is startled, and very, very close. My arm is cold, wet and sticky. Simon’s cider.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he says, as a drop of cider drips from his hair and down the curve of his jaw, and I’m inclined to agree. (I was very wrong that my birthday couldn’t get worse.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I peel myself off Simon. The girl that fell on him is unharmed, although she might be trying to salvage her tumble into a meet-cute. I shove through the crowd towards the loo. When I push the door open, I’m blinded by the bright fluorescents. It takes a few blinks before I realise that Simon has followed me in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This shirt costs more than your whole closet,” I grumble, turning on the tap and wetting a paper towel. “Which you would have considered if you knew anything about economics.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon scrunches his forehead. “Is that what it’s about?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, but speaking of it, you’re taking a high level economics class </span>
  <em>
    <span>for the credits</span>
  </em>
  <span>? You couldn’t have taken anything else? Why, did Beginner Finger Painting fill up?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re such a prick,” Simon grumbles, roughly drying his hair with a paper towel. “It’s the only class that fits with my work schedule. Not that you’d know anything about that, you posh wanker. With your 200 quid shirt and your ridiculous flat in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Chelsea</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows where I live. I try to rack my brain and figure out if we’ve ever talked about where I live. (We haven’t, because we don’t talk.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I mean to accuse him of stalking me, but instead I say, “I didn’t know you had a job.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon leans against the sink. “Yeah, I do. I work at Grimy Goat Books in Camden.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The secondhand bookstore?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yep. I bet you’re surprised I know how to read.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t say that proves you can read. You could be doing the heavy lifting. You look like you’d be good at that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon glances at me curiously. “Thanks?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I’m grasping for another insult, to regain the upper hand, when a beefy man slams open the door. “Oi, lovebirds! You’re blocking the urinals.” He shoves past us and unzips his fly. “Find another loo to shag in.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I grimace and turn away from him. “I can’t figure out if he’s being homophobic or not. I’m too drunk.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon shrugs. “Penny would know. She’s good at figuring out stuff like that. We should go and ask her.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, okay,” I say, because right now I’d follow Simon Snow anywhere. Out of a grotty loo is a pretty good deal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It turns out that when we return to the dance floor, we can’t ask Bunce anything, because her mouth is occupied. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, shit!” Simon yells, directly into my ear. “Okay, I should have seen this coming! I’ve been a bit thick when it comes to her and Shepard!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Stop shouting!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?” he shouts back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to go prematurely deaf!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I snort and grab Simon’s wrist. He looks offended and his mouth moves, but I can’t hear him anyway. I drag him off the dance floor and towards the bar until we don’t have to scream. (Not if we stand extremely close.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>said</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if you keep shouting, I’m going to go prematurely deaf. That’s not exactly what I had planned for twenty-two-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Twenty-two? I thought you were twenty-one…” He pulls out his phone and, to my horror, opens Bumble. A dating app that I haven’t touched in months.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I blame the shock of discovering that Simon Snow has seen me on Bumble - that Simon Snow looks at </span>
  <em>
    <span>men</span>
  </em>
  <span> on Bumble - for what comes out of my mouth next.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was, until today.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His jaw drops, and I immediately regret saying anything. His whole face lights up. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this happy, and I’ve seen him find half a sandwich in his coat pocket during seminar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Happy birthday, Baz,” he beams, so earnestly that I can’t catch my breath. “What do you want for your birthday?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To ravish you against the disgusting walls of this bar.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “For you to drop out of Tuesday seminar.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll buy you a drink. What’s your favourite drink?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pass.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pokes my chest. “You don’t want a drink? Why else did you come to a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bar</span>
  </em>
  <span>, ya berk?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My friends forced me to come out. I didn’t want to. I’ve been having kind of a shit week, to be honest.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon sets his elbow on the bar and tips his head to the side. “A shit week? What could possibly get you down, Baz?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I quirk an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just mean, y’know. You’re always so put together. I’m a human disaster, but you never seem like - you forgot to set your alarm, or you dropped your breakfast on your shirt, or you stepped in something nasty when you got off the Tube.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I can’t help myself - I laugh. Simon laughs too, and a warm feeling spreads through my bones like cheap gin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have a couple of job offers for after graduation. There’s one I really want, but my father - he doesn’t approve.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? Why’s that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s at a nonprofit that consults with charitable organisations - about how to best use their money, and such. He’d rather I take a job with a big corporation. Something that pays better, with more stability.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, he’s looking out for you,” Simon replies. “The nonprofit sector is volatile. Stressful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I shrug. “I’m aware. But I’m not in need of vast amounts of money. It’s an established nonprofit; they’re paying me fairly. I just...know that if I get sucked in to doing something I don’t feel passionate about, I’ll just stay with it. Because it’s comfortable. And I don’t want to do that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon smiles, disco lights flickering in his eyes. “Then take the offer. You’ll be brilliant, and your father will come around.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p><span>I want to scoff and explain that nothing</span> <span>is that simple when it comes to my family, but when Simon lays it out in his straightforward way, I can’t argue with him. He makes me feel like anything is possible.</span></p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“C’mon. You only turn twenty-two once. Don’t spend it here if you hate it.” Snow grabs my upper arm. I don’t know if I’m imagining it, that he kneads it under his fingers. I let him tug me towards the door. Only when he starts pushing it open and I’m assailed by the cold night air against my still-damp shirt do I consider what I’m doing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t. My friends are here.” I scan the crowd for Dev and Niall. Then I spot them, and regret it. They’re both grinning. Niall sends a thumbs up my way. Dev makes a crude gesture. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon doesn’t see them, which is for the best. “Right- sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking.” He loosens his grip on my arm, and I immediately catch his hand with my own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My teeth start chattering as soon as I step outside - I didn’t dress properly for the weather since we came in Dev’s car - and Simon drops my hand to pull his gloves from his coat pocket and hand them to me, along with his hat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stare at the woolen bundle dumbly. “I’m not wearing your hat. What if you have lice?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have lice! Not anymore, at least.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My lip curls. I’ve never been good at hiding my disdain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I mean, I had lice a couple times! When I was in care. But then I started shaving my head before every summer, and it stopped being a problem. I mean, they’d have to shave my head anyway once I got them, so it was really my fault for not thinking about it earlier.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were in the care system?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Mum died giving birth to me, father dropped me off at a hospital.” Simon shrugs. “He came back when I was 11 but he didn’t want anything to do with me. He was rich, though. Paid for me to go to a fancy school which got me out of care except in the summers, so I’m grateful. Even though he </span>
  <em>
    <span>was</span>
  </em>
  <span> a prick.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon says this all in a matter of fact way. With no real emotion, as if he’s made this speech a thousand times before. Still, I’m overcome with the desire to hold him. To run my hands through his curls and press his face against my chest -</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nope, I’m not doing this. Having fleeting thoughts of shagging my handsome classmate is fine - I’m drunk, it’s my birthday. I would dare anyone to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> want to shag Simon after a few drinks when he’s looking at you like that. But I’m not letting my head go...there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That explains why you’re such an uncultured tit,” I say, and immediately regret it. (I may have overcorrected.) But Simon just laughs and shoves me good-naturedly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going?” I ask, pulling on his hat and gloves. I’m so cold, I wouldn’t actually care if he had lice. Or scabies. I might draw the line at herpes, but it’s a near thing. “I’d like to be indoors.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dunno. You seem like you’d like something posh. Like the British Museum. Reckon they’re not open, though.” His eyes light up. “Oh! We’re not far from the bookshop. I have the keys. I mean, it’s a fireable offence, probably. But I’m sure Ebb wouldn’t mind.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>We turn a couple more corners until we stumble upon a dark storefront. It’s seen better days, but it’s slightly more charming than the charity shops and chippies that surround it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Bet you don’t spend much time in this part of London,” Simon says as he fiddles with the keys. “What’s it like, then? Your flat in Chelsea?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you trying to do, rob it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Making small talk, mate.” He pulls the door open and I realise the bookshop is down a narrow flight of stairs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When we reach the bottom, Simon flicks on the lights. The shop is bathed in warm yellows. The shelves are made of metal and coated with that library shade of grey enamel, and the carpet is worn and rough, but there are a few antique armchairs tucked into the corners.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s small, but clean and well-kept. There are books wherever I look - on the shelves, yes, but also stacked behind the register, in a row on the ground next to an armchair, and along a high windowsill that, in the daytime, probably offers an unparalleled view of passing shoes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I wander through the bookshelves while Simon putters about behind the register. There’s a formidable selection of Agatha Christie novels - the pulp-fiction style editions from the 50s. I’m thumbing through a first edition of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sad Cypress</span>
  </em>
  <span> (everyone goes gaga for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Murder on the Orient Express</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I prefer the more understated, character-driven murders) when Snow comes up behind me and breaks the silence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Agatha Christie?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, it’s a bit pedestrian. You don’t exactly have a stunning selection here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, I love her.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course you do, Simon Snow</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Speaking of...why did you try to kiss Agatha? The one that’s my friend, I mean.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now that I’ve sobered up, I cringe at the reminder. But I try to keep up a confident facade as I reply, “Because I thought it would upset you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Why’d you want to upset me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I look at him and raise an eyebrow. “I thought that would be obvious.” He doesn’t say anything, so I continue. “Revenge. You irritate me in seminar - always with the stupid questions.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon pouts. “You answer them, though.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s the only way to get you to shut up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon pulls </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sad Cypress </span>
  </em>
  <span>out of my hands, crowding into my space as he re-shelves it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There’s enough empty seats in that course for you to avoid sitting next to me.” His face is very close now. “Why don’t you, then? Move?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I can feel his hot breaths against my lips. I close my eyes because it’s all too much.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I...shouldn’t have to move. I was there first,” I whisper.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I have a different theory. I think you’re right obsessed with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Only because you’re the bane of my existence. I can’t focus when you’re around.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I open my eyes in time to see Simon’s mouth curl into a Cheshire Cat smile. “Me neither. You’re impossible to ignore. Like an elephant on my-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I cut him off with my lips. Because I can’t listen to his blathering anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon’s hands reach up to caress my face as he kisses back without hesitation. The feel of his mouth is electric. By leaps and bounds, this is the best kiss I’ve ever had. I’m dizzy from it all - the last vestiges of alcohol in my system, the dreamlike quality of this late night, and Simon, who is granting my most secret wishes with his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pushes me back against the stacks and fists his hands in my hair. His kisses swing between tender and angry, and it makes my blood sing in my veins. It’s the natural progression of our animosity. Our mutual obsession. It feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I sink my fingers into his sturdy biceps. His forearms are braced against the shelf on either side of me, and I’m completely surrounded. I lean my head back to rest against a sturdy hardcover - </span>
  <em>
    <span>In Cold Blood</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It makes me wonder if I’m having a highly specific sex dream.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I release one of Simon’s biceps to pinch myself on the thigh, hard. “Ow!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon startles away at my yelp. He’s flushed red in splotches - it should make him look like he’s having an anaphylactic reaction, but it’s quite fetching. “Are you okay?” he asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t stop,” I growl, and shove him. I mean to push him against the other side of the stacks, but he stumbles back and falls on his arse with an </span>
  <em>
    <span>oof</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Normally, I would be mortified, but Simon gazes up at me, looking for all the world like a Greek statue with his tumbling curls and parted lips. His thighs are open and inviting and I don’t second guess myself before I drop to my knees between them and resume our heated snog.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He falls back against the rough carpeting and I lean over him. His thighs squeeze my hips as I part his lips with my tongue. He tastes like sweat and cider and the flavor of your mouth when it waters - it’s disgusting and intoxicating all at the same time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a whole list of things I’ve wanted to do to Simon Snow since the first Tuesday I set eyes on him: kiss the furrow between his brows. Lick the moles on his jaw. Bite the muscle in his neck that flexes when he leans over to read my notes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon has a similar agenda, if the purposeful movement of his mouth down my neck is any indication. He swirls his tongue into the dip of my clavicle, then nibbles his way back up, pushing the flat of his tongue against my Adam’s apple. When he bites me there, I yelp, then moan far too loudly. I wonder if he’s going to leave a mark that I can wear to class next week. The thought makes something dark and sweet coil in my belly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hand I’m not balancing on roves desperately, wanting to feel all of him, from his firm shoulders to the softness near his belly. He keens, squeezing a fistful of my arse and thrusting up towards me when I palm his clothed erection. The sound sends a shiver through me, and I don’t let myself think too much before sliding down his body and unzipping his flies. (Yes, I’m about to suck a bloke’s cock on the mildewed carpet of a basement bookshop. My aunt Fiona would be so proud, not that she will </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span> find out.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon groans when I pull him out of his pants. His prick is a darker shade of gold than the rest of him, and thicker than mine. He has moles here too - drawing a line towards his flushed pink head. I lick them for a few moments until I can’t resist anymore. Then, I pull his foreskin back and take him into my mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I moan at the sensation, and it’s only slightly for show. The stretch of my lips around him is delectable, and the feel of him velvety on my tongue makes my mouth water for more. He thrusts up against the vibrations and I swallow around him, feeling a spark of pride as I take him all the way down into my throat and he grasps for purchase in my hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah - ah, holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Baz-” He babbles a steady stream of curses that sound like prayers as I bob faster and harder around him, suddenly desperate to taste him for the first time. He stutters and the movement of his hips slows to a few long thrusts - </span>
  <em>
    <span>one, two</span>
  </em>
  <span> - and then he’s coming down my throat in a flood of heat and salt and bitterness. I make sure to swallow every drop. If Simon Snow wakes up tomorrow and realises this was all a mistake, I want to savour every piece of him that I’ve been allowed to have.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gasps for breath, a hand flung over his eyes as his heartbeat slows down again. Then he’s sitting up, pulling me into his lap and kissing me fiercely as I rut against him. He turns his head to mumble sweet nothings into my ear, snakes his hand between us and pulls me to completion with a “so good, baby, come for me, you deserve it,” and my pleasure mounts as my world narrows into the sensation of him around me, until I can’t hold it in anymore. I spill into his hand, then collapse, my face pressed against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of sweat and come and Simon.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He holds me against his chest with one arm, and wipes the hand covered in my come on his tee shirt (disgusting). We sit there together until my breaths even out and my brain catches up to what I’ve just done.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I stand up, dust off and readjust my trousers. (I can’t believe I just came in my </span>
  <em>
    <span>pants</span>
  </em>
  <span> - fortunately, Simon’s hand caught most of it.) I check my phone as Simon sets himself to rights - nothing but a few birthday messages, a text from Niall telling me to check in when I’m home, and about a thousand eggplant emojis from Dev. I open the Uber app and to see how long it’ll take me to find a ride home at this hour.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Simon snakes his arms around my waist and props his chin on my shoulder, laying a wet kiss against my neck. “Going home?” (I must be imagining that he sounds disappointed.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As much as I’d love to spend the night on this floor, breathing in mould spores, I’m afraid I should return to my flat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s only gone two - stay longer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I turn my head towards him and smirk. “Hm. Strategising a second round?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” Simon says, turning me so that I’m face to face with him. “If you really want to go, I’ll let you go. But I’m getting your number first, because I’m not letting you pretend that none of this happened tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I blush as I hand him my mobile (after dismissing Dev’s texts, of course.) When he’s done, he hands it back and scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “So, I know this was a terrible first date, and I’m starving, so do you want to grab a bite before you go home?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nowhere decent is going to be open at this hour, Snow.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Actually, I know a place. It’s open late and it’s new - this American chain, really cheap.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Half an hour later, as I hold hands with Simon Snow in a bright purple Taco Bell and eat a Crunchwrap Supreme, I text Dev:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I reluctantly acknowledge that I should listen to you more often.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading! this is the most plot I've ever written (lol) so please provide your thoughts/criticisms! sorry Simon, I know it was just your birthday but Baz gets to celebrate first</p></blockquote></div></div>
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